


In the VERY Beginning

by Cake_isnt_pie_sam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Daddy Kink, Incest, M/M, Wincest - Freeform, daddycest, unknowing incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:13:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1877781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cake_isnt_pie_sam/pseuds/Cake_isnt_pie_sam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, this is definitely something I’ve never written, inspired by a porn gif and well—things got a little out of control. This is the first part of a three part fic. Smut is to come in part two and three. ;)</p><p>Summary: Alternate beginning of S4 E3: In the Beginning. Dean’s sent back to 1973 by Castiel with nothing but the words, “stop it.” Of course, Dean’s got nothing to go by and ends up in a bar, getting a little friendly with a stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the VERY Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> (I don't own any of Supernatural. Comments appreciated!)
> 
> A/N: There is NSFW, daddycest, Dean/ Young John— however you wanna put it. My beta reader felt dirty and guilty but fucking loved it. So enter at your own risk. ;)

So Castiel thinks he can just drop Dean in the middle of damned nowhere and tell him to “stop it” …whatever that means. He needs to know where he is. He looks around. He can’t help but notice the way people are dressed. And what the hell? When did long hair and big glasses get back in style? Okay, something’s up. He spots a guy walking toward him. A not half-bad looking guy, as a matter of fact, probably somewhere in his twenties. Of course now’s not the time for thoughts like that.   
  
Dean runs a hand through his hair, clearing his throat. The man looks up, so he smiles, lifting his head slightly.   
  
“Can I help you?” the stranger asks Dean. Whoa, those eyes.   
  
You bet your ass. “Yeah,” he coughs, laughing a little. “Do you know the date?”   
  
“Rough night?” the man grins, handing him the paper in his hand. “I was done with it anyway,” he adds, walking away.   
  
He looks at the date. April 30, 1973. Shit. Okay. So maybe he’s in the past. Apparently angels took the whole Back to the Future thing a little too seriously.   
  
So he’s back in the past? Fuck it—he has no idea what he’s supposed to stop or when, so he goes to a bar. He leans against the bar, pinching the bridge of his nose as he orders a few shots. Damn it. He could be back at the motel with Sam, trying to figure out this damned apocalypse thing. But nope, he’s stuck right the hell here in 1973. Given, the cars are damned beautiful and so is the music on the radio, but he’s not _supposed_ to be here.   
  
Four shots in, he sighs, shaking his head. “Damn it,” he mumbles and suddenly there’s a hand clamped on his shoulder and a laugh beside him.   
  
“You again,” Dean says, huffing out a laugh. He didn’t even get the guy’s name before, but four shots of whiskey tend to make a man more outgoing.   
  
The guy smiles, ordering a beer. “I see you’re the if-at-first-you-try-and-don’t-succeed kind,” he says, motioning to the empty shot glasses in front of Dean.   
  
Dean can’t help but grin back at the man; the guy’s smile is just this side of contagious. “Yeah, guess so. So since I didn’t catch a name from you earlier, can I get it from ya now?” he muses, ordering himself another beer since he’s feeling quite better than when he walked in. For a second he wonders how men flirting with men works in the seventies, but dismisses it quickly with the man’s voice.   
  
“John,” he says, holding out his hand.   
  
Dean shakes it, locking eyes once again with the man. That damned shade of green, like looking at trees in the fog. Whoa, okay so maybe drinking makes him a damned poet or something. He nods, hand lingering just slightly before letting go. “Dean.”   
  
They continue talking, actually hitting it off quite well, until both of them are just a shade drunker than they probably should be, but Dean doesn’t even care. They’ve got probably five guys singing “Ramble On” while the jukebox plays it throughout the bar and since Dean put it on, the bartender gives both he and John another round of shots.   
  
“Oh man, this song is a classic! Never gets old,” Dean laughs, wrapping his arm over John’s shoulders.   
  
John tosses back the shot, grinning in response and raising an eyebrow. “Classic? I mean, It’s not even five years old,” he says, swaying into Dean a little. “Oh man, I wasn’t even planning to get this fizzed,” he adds, laughing.   
  
Dean almost feels like a bad influence, but he can’t even bother to let himself care because a gorgeous man with a killer smile is under his arm. “Yeah, man. Me neither. We should probably get out of here. Fresh air, y’know?”   
  
And John nods, tossing a ten on the counter as a tip, nodding at the bartender.   
  
They get out into the fresh air, sun setting. So maybe it’s a little early to be drunk, but to be fair, Dean’s got Angel Airlines jetlag. He’s not even a fraction of tired and from the look on John’s face, neither is he.   
  
“You got folks that are gonna be pissed that you’re hammered before dark?” Dean asks John, arm still wrapped around him as they walk down the sidewalk, swaying just slightly.   
  
“Haven’t lived with anyone for a while,” John says. “You?”   
  
So Dean really shouldn’t lie to the guy—he seems like a nice enough dude. He lies every day, though, so it’s the first thought that comes to mind. But if he’s gonna score, he’s gonna have to be creative, just like how he usually gets creative at bars. “Nah, my buddy just dropped me off here. Plannin’ on getting a motel,” he says, almost tripping over a crack in the sidewalk.   
  
“You’re pretty awesome,” John says, leaning into Dean, warm breath on his neck. “Just stay at my apartment tonight. No friend of mine ‘s gonna sleep on some gross motel bed,” he mumbles against Dean’s neck.   
  
A tingle shoots down Dean’s spine and he can’t agree any faster than he does. “Sounds like a plan.”   
  
A few jokes and a few blocks, they’re in a small apartment— dimly lit, but awesomely decorated. AC/DC posters, Zeppelin records…okay so maybe the décor alone is making Dean hard.   
  
John closes the door behind them and drapes himself over an arm of his white couch, the only thing making the apartment look brighter than it really is. He laughs, his cheeks slightly pink.   
  
Dean grins as he sits beside John, unable to think of Sam when he sees those pink cheeks. He misses Sam for a whole minute before John’s hand clamps down on Dean’s knee as he laughs.   
  
“You’re not half-bad, Dean,” he says. And damnit if the sting of John’s grip doesn’t shoot straight up Dean’s jeans.   
  
“Y-yeah, you’re pretty awesome, too,” Dean says, only halfway caught off-guard. He recovers quickly, putting his arm around John’s shoulders and turning his body toward him a little. He can’t help but focus much of his attention to the hand still on his leg, though. He swallows, setting his jaw and leaning toward John a fraction of an inch.   
  
John turns to face him, obviously not expecting Dean to be so close up and he fucking _blushes_ , as if his cheeks couldn’t get any redder from the alcohol alone. John nervously chuckles, averting his eyes. “Look, pal…” he begins, slurring just slightly. “I uh, I have a girl.”   
  
Dean’s heart just about jumps into his throat, but he can’t help it. Just something about John’s cheeks, his long eyelashes, and damn it—his eyes. It all reminds him of Sam that much more, and he clenches his jaw tightly. None of those thoughts. Not right now. He leans over a little so his body is resting on John’s arm, still on his leg, by the way. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have a guy, too,” he says quietly. And for a whole minute, he thinks he might have fucked up. Maybe he was reading the guy all wrong maybe—   
  
The corner of John’s mouth quirks up into a grin as he looks over to meet Dean’s eyes. “I knew you were a smart man,” John says quietly, leaning forward to press a rough, whiskey-sweet kiss to Dean’s mouth.


End file.
